by Peter Watson
David waved goodbye. ‘OK, see you tomorrow. Don’t celebrate too hard.’
He made straight for Gina’s. Bess was already there, a campari and soda in front of her. She looked up and smiled as he arrived and held out her hand. David shook it, though the gesture implied a formality he hoped he’d got beyond. He sat down. She was wearing a red silk dress. He scanned her face. Had she made up specially for him? He couldn’t be sure, but she was wearing earrings and he liked that. They were something extra.
‘I’ve just been looking at the picture, close-up, with Smallbone. It’s fantastic.’
‘And so different from the Raphael – yet just as spiritual.’
‘Yes, it’s a pity the pictures couldn’t have been sold together – it would have brought out one of the ideas Thomas is trying to get across: that spirituality means different things to different people.’
She looked at him levelly. ‘If they had been sold together, would it have made any difference to the prices paid?’
‘I doubt it. Each of the three paintings His Holiness has sold are first-rate and very rare. There’s always money around for the best. Why do you ask?’
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Nothing.’
Gina appeared, half-hidden behind a mound of macaroni, with a tomato sauce red as her make-up.
‘I ordered for you,’ said Bess. ‘I’m starving.’
She served the pasta and they began to eat.
‘I have a question for you,’ said David. ‘Smallbone said the Holy Father asked him to stay on in Rome. You don’t know what that’s about, do you?’
Bess threw back her head, twisting her neck as he had seen her do on the previous occasion. Again, her hair was swept back so that it no longer framed her face, making her look younger. The red in her dress brought out the gold in her hair, as if she had sunshine inside her. ‘As a matter of fact I do. But I can’t tell you. What I can say is that the Holy Father would like you to stay on in Rome also –’
‘What! Why?’
‘I can’t say, David. Please. Only for forty-eight hours, then all will be explained. It’s very important, I promise.’
‘I’d planned to go back tomorrow.’
‘Put it off, please.’
‘And you really can’t say?’
‘No. I hate being so secretive but, when you understand, you’ll see why.’
‘And Smallbone is involved?’
‘I can’t say any more. Please say you’ll stay. It’s important to Thomas.’
If it was important to Thomas, David reflected, it was important to Bess. But he was being difficult – why? Was it because, when she had agreed to have dinner with him, he had hoped they might take up from last time? . . . but now he found that she had another reason to see him, to give him news of this damn meeting.
‘Why is it so last-minute, so rushed?’
‘I can’t explain that either. But Thomas will, the day after tomorrow.’
David would have to stay, of course. It would be insulting not to, after the money the Vatican sales had brought into Hamilton’s.
‘If I do stay Bess, don’t you think you ought to make it up to me? Don’t you think I ought to get something in return?’ He smiled to show he was half-joking. But he was half-serious, too.
Her hair had fallen forward and yet again she tossed it back with a twist that was already becoming familiar. ‘There is something, but I don’t think it’s what you have in mind.’
‘You owe me, Bess.’
‘All right, then. If you insist. I’ve bought some things, art things –’
‘– And you want me to advise you.’
‘No, not quite. I’ve already bought them – it’s too late for that. They’ve even been delivered. That’s my point. I need a man to carry them up four flights of stairs.’
Chapter Five
Two exciting, momentous days followed. First came the world’s reaction to the sale of the Caravaggio: His Holiness now had forty-two million dollars, less three million, three hundred and sixty thousand dollars commission, to fight the Mafia with. This time James Roskill, the American President, was not the only political figure to praise Pope Thomas. The Prime Ministers of Great Britain, Australia and Sweden did too, as well as the West German Chancellor, the Israeli President and the Brazilian President.
And there was David’s visit to Bess’s apartment building, helping her haul and hoist and heft her ‘art things’ up 107 steps. The job took hours and his lunch beforehand with Smallbone hadn’t improved matters. The Getty man had already seen the Holy Father – he still wouldn’t say what about – but he insisted on celebrating his acquisition of the Caravaggio all over again. So when David arrived at Bess’s flat in the Via dei Banchi Vecchi that afternoon he could have been in better shape.
The exercise soon straightened him out. From their size – they were solidly packaged – Bess’s ‘art things’ appeared to be two very large paintings and a particularly heavy piece of sculpture. Bess herself was dressed, for the first time since had known her, in trousers and a very practical pair of espadrilles. She would supervise the operation. ‘There’s freshly squeezed lemon juice in the flat – when you get there,’ she had said with a grin.
David took off his blazer and started lifting. What had happened to the man who had answered the phone? he wondered. Was he out of the picture now? He didn’t dare ask.
Though heavy, the sculpture was in fact the easiest thing to move. The pictures, although lighter, were so large they were very difficult to negotiate up the twists and turns of the staircase. Still, when Bess’s flat was reached the climb proved worth it. She had one large room, a sort of studio, off which the bedroom, kitchen and bathroom all led. The main room was dramatic enough but the view was even more so. The window looked across miles of roof tops, punctuated here and there by the majestic rising shapes of baroque church steeples and spires, the whole vista dominated by the magnificent cupola of St Peter’s.
‘How did you find this place?’ said David, drinking his juice.
‘Believe it or not, it comes with the job. But as you can see, the steps are a problem.’
David put his glass down and started undoing the packages. He noticed photographs on the walls. Bess and her family, American landscapes, a fine portrait of Thomas. Bess in a balloon, in a sea plane, on a bicycle against a backdrop that looked like the Italian lakes. Active pictures all of them – the tomboy, David observed, had not quite disappeared. There was none of an eligible man. When he had unwrapped the pictures, he placed them against the wall. One showed a mythological scene, with nude figures, some dressed in helmets, and with many animals. The second was a drawing with fantastic writhing figures in weird perspective. The sculpture was of a single nude male figure, much calmer, classically proportioned with strong abdominal muscles and a straight, aquiline nose.
‘What do you think?’ said Bess.
David didn’t reply straight away. Then, ‘What do you think? Why did you buy these?’
‘Well, to tell the truth, you’re a bit responsible. These sales of Thomas’s have obviously concentrated my mind on art. And you made the scholarly side to it sound so interesting that I decided to start collecting for myself. And, you know, I reckon I may already have made a discovery.’ She went over and stood by the drawing. It was almost as tall as she was. ‘The guy I bought this from said it was by Domenico Tiepolo, the “wrong Tiepolo”, as he called him. So it didn’t cost that much. But before I bought it I looked at a few books on the Tiepolos – there were two of them, as you must know. Giambattista is the famous one, Domenico was his son and not as good. And you know, David, I found a drawing in one of these books which looks just like this. It could really be by Giambattista Tiepolo and if it is, it’s worth a whole lot more than I paid for it.’ She looked at him hopefully.
David helped himself to more juice. ‘And the other picture?’
‘Well, it was sold to me as an Antonio Carracci. I gather there were at least five
Carracis and that Antonio ranked about fourth out of the five. But I’m rather hoping it might be the same as the Tiepolo. I’ve looked at a few books and it seems in the style of Annibale – he was number one, as I don’t need to tell you. That would be really exciting if it turned out to be an Annibale.’
‘And the sculpture?’
‘The dealer threw that in for very little. He was a picture dealer, he said. He didn’t know much about sculpture. He said he thought it was probably a Roman copy of a Greek original. Even if it is, it’s worth more than I paid for it. If I can identify it in any of the books, I mean.’ She sat on the sofa and poured herself some juice. ‘Well, have I the makings of a connoisseur or not?’
‘You’ve been had.’
‘What!’
‘By one of the oldest tricks in the book.’
‘No! You’re not serious. Good grief. Tell me you’re joking, David. The man was so nice.’
‘I’ve never been more serious.’
‘But I don’t understand! What’s wrong with these things? What do you mean: the oldest trick in the book?’
‘For a start, the “drawing”, as you call it, is not by Domenico Tiepolo, it’s by his father Giambattista, the famous one.’
‘So.’
‘But it’s not a drawing. It’s an old engraving – it can be hard sometimes to tell the difference. An engraver called Pietro Monaco copied quite a lot of old man Tiepolo’s drawings. He did them to show what he could do. There are a lot of them around and I’m afraid they aren’t worth very much – and never will be.’
Bess went over to the ‘drawing’ to examine it.
‘You fell for an old line, I’m afraid. Dealers get a copy of a picture by a well-known artist. It’s thrown in with a pile of other things. Many famous artists had families whose other members were also painters – the Carracci, the Tiepolo, the Bassano, the Veronese, the Le Nain brothers, the Breughels, the Van der Veldes. There are more than you’d think. To the dealers a copy is worth next to nothing, since the painter is so well known. So they keep it in a back room – is that where your man had this one?’
Bess nodded.
‘– and when someone comes in who seems keen but naive, they pass it off as an original but by the junior member of family. Willem van de Velde, not Adriaen, Carlo Veronese, not Paolo. Newcomers in the art world always buy carefully, or they think they do. They carry out rudimentary research in easily available books – and find what you found, that the picture is not by the junior man at all, but the famous one. People are so keen to make a coup that they never stop to ask themselves why the dealer hasn’t looked in the same books.’
‘So this other painting . . .?’
‘I can’t be sure, but I know this much. In the eighteenth century there was a Venetian connoisseur called Filippo Farsetti. He had a wonderful collection of copies. He employed a painter, Luigi Pozzi, and a sculptor, Ventura Furlani, to do nothing else but copy great works in Rome and elsewhere.
‘Pozzi copied mainly works by Raphael and the Carracci and Furlani spent all his time carving copies of classical statues. I’m afraid you haven’t got a sixteenth-century painting, or a piece of classical sculpture, but late eighteenth-century copies’.
Bess was blushing, embarrassed at being taken in so easily. Anger was beginning to stir. ‘What can I do?’
‘How did you pay?’
‘By cheque. But it cleared before they would let me take the things away. They delivered the day it cleared.’
‘Who are “they”?’
‘A dealer called Ludovisi in the Via del Babuino.’
David thought fast. ‘May I use your phone?’
‘Of course.’
He dialled. ‘May I speak to Massimo Vittrice, please.’ There was a pause, during which time David told her he was calling Hamilton’s offices in Rome. ‘Massimo? David Colwyn here. Fine, thank you – and you? Good. Listen, Massimo, I need some help. Do you know a dealer here in Rome called Ludovisi? Yes, that’s right, on the Via del Babuino. Do they buy from us? A lot – good. Look, I know this is short notice but do you think you could meet me there in, say, half an hour? Thanks – I’ll explain everything then. See you in thirty minutes.’
They finished their juice. David washed quickly and put his blazer back on. Then he and Bess took a taxi to the Via del Babuino. He wouldn’t tell her what he planned in case it didn’t come off. They waited outside Ludovisi’s until Massimo appeared, then he led the way inside. The dealer’s face lit up when he saw Massimo, but fell immediately as he noticed Bess behind him with David. Massimo introduced David to Ludovisi and then David explained, courteously, with many expressions of Italianate regret, that unless Ludovisi returned all monies to Miss Elizabeth Lisle, press secretary to the Holy Father, and took back the works he had recently sold her, no doubt as the result of a cataloguing error, he would never again be able to enter Hamilton’s auction house.
Ludovisi was a practical man, who recognized superior force when he saw it. The ‘error’ was admitted, apologies were made and the cheque was written out there and then. David told him he could collect the artworks in two days – when the cheque had cleared.
Later that evening, as David walked Bess home after a celebratory supper at Gina’s with Massimo, she had said, ‘Why didn’t you let me pay for dinner tonight? After what happened today I feel as though I still owe you something.’
They had reached her courtyard. ‘You do,’ said David. ‘You do owe me. But I’ll settle for much less than dinner. I’ll settle for this.’ And before she could respond he leaned forward and, very lightly, kissed her cheek.
*
David recalled the faint, lavender smell of Bess’s make-up next morning as he stepped out of the lift and into the third floor of the papal apartments. Patrick O’Rourke, the Holy Father’s principal private secretary, held out his hand. ‘Welcome to the apostolic palace, Mr Colwyn. This way, please.’
David shook the offered hand and followed O’Rourke down a wide corridor, uncarpeted. The floor was of red and grey marble, the walls painted a surprisingly sallow, institutional yellow. Like most Catholics, David had always wanted to see inside the papal apartments at the Vatican and now, at long last, here he was. The Pope’s special meeting, which David had been asked to stay on in Rome for, was about to begin.
O’Rourke turned off the corridor into a large study-cum-conference room. The windows, David could see, gave on to St Peter’s Square.
He was amazed at the size of the meeting: there must have been a dozen men in the room, many of whom he didn’t know. Bess wasn’t among them but scarcely had David been shown to his seat at the long rectangular table than a large double door at the far end of the room opened and His Holiness appeared with Bess and his other private secretary behind. The Pope, who was limping quite badly, was carrying a bundle of papers and took his seat at the head of the table. Bess sat opposite David and smiled, rather nervously he thought. She had her hair up.
The Pope came straight to the point. ‘Good morning everyone – especially to Mr David Colwyn here, chief executive of Hamilton’s who has so successfully masterminded the sales of our paintings.’ All eyes turned to David. His Holiness spoke again. ‘Mr Colwyn, of course you know Elizabeth Lisle here, and His Eminence Cardinal Massoni, the Secretary of State.’ Massoni, unsmiling, inclined his head. The Pope continued: ‘You have also met Cardinal Zingale, I recall, President of the Patrimony of the Holy See, Dottore Tecce and Dottore Venturini. Next to you is Cardinal John Rich, Archbishop of New York, on his left is Archbishop Albino Sabino, president of the Institute for Religious Works, the Vatican Bank, and on his left Cardinal Ettore Loredan, president of the Pontifical Commission for Latin America. Opposite you, next to Miss Lisle, is Archbishop Andrzej Rozmberk, President of the Pontifical Commission Cor Unum which, as you may know, looks after development issues in the Third World. Next to me here is Cardinal Romeo Savelli, president of the Prefecture of the Economic Affairs of the Holy See; and finally, on Mi
ss Lisle’s other side, you see Cardinal Eusebio del Santander, head of the Permanent Commission for the protection of Historical and Artistic Monuments of the Holy See.’
Thomas paused to examine the papers in front of him. It struck David that His Holiness looked slightly nervous. There was not a sound anywhere in the room.
The Pope looked up. ‘Gentlemen – and Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for the rather cloak and dagger way some of you have been brought here, but I assure you that what we are to discuss this morning is important enough to warrant it.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘Let me recap a little before I come to the main purpose of the meeting. Earlier this year, as a result of the unfortunate tragedy at Foligno, and following an angry outburst by Sr Sirianni, the mayor of that town, I had an idea. As a result of Mr Colwyn’s – “adaption” – of my idea, the Church has been set on a new direction, one that appears to have much to commend it: we provide funds for the poor, we offer them hope, we improve the standing of the Church in the eyes of many and we draw them back to the faith. Most important, I believe the Holy Spirit is speaking to us and this approach is the work of God. What we have been doing is right.
‘The monies raised by the sale of the Raphael, the Gauguin and the Caravaggio have been put to good use. Foligno will be almost restored by the end of the year. The new cathedral will take two years more to complete but already the people can see it going up. Part of the relief money is being used to help build a Fiat factory, which will provide jobs and perhaps prosperity for the area. In the Marquesas Isles in the South Pacific we have built a hospital, a school, five hundred and sixty-five prefabricated houses, and a small dock. We have provided deposits for the purchase of eight fishing vessels. In Sicily most of you will be familiar with our successes against the Mafia there – the first real relief from violence the island has ever known.